


From the Heart

by kipli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable, Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Birthday Presents, Cute, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Mush, Gift Giving, Happy, I didn't know what to get you for your birthday, I hope you like it, M/M, so I got you this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:52:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kipli/pseuds/kipli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John stumble upon a gift giving tradition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vanillabuzz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillabuzz/gifts).



> Happy Birthday [vanillabuzz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillabuzz). My other half and my Sherlock. I hope you enjoy your birthday present. Also thank you to [mareel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mareel) for the quick beta!

A jumper. Something with soft but natural fibres. Woolly and vibrant. Or perhaps muted and comfortable. Usable and thoughtful. Does it speak too much of gifts from one's grandmother? Too simple? Too practical?

A new laptop. An expensive but necessary gift. His is years out of date, however much he huffs that it works _just fine_ for him when it's age is pointed out. It would run quieter, smoother. Keys wouldn't tap or click with age and use. He wouldn't be able to hear him pecking away at them in the evenings...

A gun cleaning kit. He's had just the one for ages. Cleaning cloth nearly worn through. A throwback kit from his time in the service. There's far more beautiful and elaborate cases and kits. Would it be appreciate? Does it not send the message that he's simply a hired hand? Happy Birthday, thank you for your service, oh and don't forget to keep your gun in working order, might need that later.

Sherlock's features frowned ever so slightly as he lay on the sofa, feet propped up on the far armrest, and hands folded beneath his chin. His eyes opened to stare unseeing up at the ceiling.

What does one gift the perfect man? What could one gift that does the perfect man any justice?

He had two hours to finally decide and eight hours to make the purchase before John likely woke. He'd not like a _massive_ deal made of the date but he would want to know Sherlock remembered it all the same. He'd huff otherwise. Although the little pouting session was adorable, he'd rather not be in trouble for 'forgetting' again. Ridiculous. He never forgot anything. Not anything important, anyway, and all things John were labelled in bright red as IMPORTANT and nothing less. He'd forget his own name before he'd throw out anything in John's wing of his mind palace.

So well if he was set on surprising John, it would have to be good. It would have to be worth all this thought and energy. It would have to be worthy of John himself.

Sherlock's mind reeled at the idea. There was _nothing_ worthy of John. He himself wasn't worthy of John, even if John always claimed otherwise. He could wrap a ridiculous red bow around himself and it wouldn't be enough. If he wasn't enough, no inanimate object was going to be either.

No inanimate object.

With a flourish that would have startled any company had someone been up with him at three in the morning, Sherlock flung himself upright and grabbed for his violin.

* * *

After being serenaded for his last birthday, the music filled with as much emotion as Sherlock could muster in to the violin's strings, along with eyes that spoke with just as much adoration, John was left stumped on what to get the man who needed nothing. He'd always loved birthdays and picking out just the right gift and throwing the perfect party but he knew Sherlock would like none of it. He'd not want a big fuss. Still, as much as Sherlock always claimed it was just another day, he knew the man loved _John's_ attention and he'd pout on the sofa for days on end if it wasn't properly given.

Usual gifts were out of the question. Even if it was something Sherlock loved, it wasn't personal enough, and Sherlock would find it dull. _A new bunsen burner... how quaint, John. I shall think of you every time I burn something. For science._

He chuckled to himself as he sat at his work desk, able to think a moment between patients. Ya, no, not about to hand him over anything of the sort.

His mind kept drifting back to the composition dedicated to him. It had been the single most romantic and touching gesture Sherlock had ever made. The way he swayed with the song. The way it breathed with life. Their lives. Together. How was he ever going to come close?

He tapped a pen against his prescription pad. There was one obvious gift but it hung over him with doubts and criticisms. He was going to be scoffed at and dismissed. He liked to think he was good with words but Sherlock took every opportunity to tell him otherwise. Most of it was teasing but it still stuck in his mind, particularly remarks on how badly he wrote poetry to the women before Sherlock.

Of course, looking back on it, Sherlock was jealous and anxious, even if neither one of them knew it at the time.

Jealous.

John twirled the pen in his fingers before he wrote down what had been circling in his mind for half an hour. He got a whole page down before the next patient came knocking.

* * *

“You're getting rather repetitive,” Sherlock hummed in his low baritone. His head rested against John's good shoulder as they lounged on the window seat facing the back garden. It was a hazy sunny day for once and they'd taken to enjoying the warmth and the view from inside their cottage.

John lazily played fingers through Sherlock's grey hairs as he responded to the harassment, “How many of these have I written now? It's hard to come up with a hundred different ways to say brilliant and wonderful and mine.”

Sherlock chuckled as he turned the page over, his pleased smile hidden, his chin tucked down as he read. “I've lost count.”

“No you haven't,” John scoffed with a tug to Sherlock's hair.

“They all blur into exquisite poetry,” he murmured, the compliment heartfelt. Of course, every single written word from John was neatly organised and categorised in John's half of the mind palace. Some were on display throughout. Reminders. Reassurances. No longer as needed but still treasured. The physical copies meticulously saved in sealed folders and frames. Preserved as they ought to be.

John laughed in embarrassment and pressed his face to Sherlock's hair, breathing in the scent of his husband, his other half, his life. It's been so many years of gifting one another from the heart. It's something to look forward to, every year, even as they grow more elaborate with age and understanding. It's a time capsule of their ability to be open with one another, of their lives and preoccupations. He once read through all of his poems to Sherlock. The first was so very shy but struggling to speak his mind. They steadily grew bolder, louder, more flowered with imagery and love. They've now simmered down into content and happiness and home.

“We do have our ridiculous tradition.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed. “But then we are both ridiculous men.”

“Says you!” John huffed in mock annoyance.

“Oh please. How many times have I played _John No.10_ for you?”

John hid his smile against Sherlock's hair once again, always adoring the tenth anniversary of their gifting, and mumbled back a mimicked, “I've lost count.”

Sherlock's chuckle rolled through his chest and rumbled so nicely against John. It was warm and happy. He could hear it, in just the soft laughter.

They sat together as Sherlock finished the poem and reread it twice before setting it down on his lap to preserve later. The sun slid behind the apple tree. The warm sun faded and the room chilled beside the expansive window.

John stilled in his playing with Sherlock's grey curls to ask in a low tone, “Would you play _John No.10_ again for me?”

“Always,” he replied with the quietest of amusement in his voice. Sherlock shifted upright in a still practised and fluid motion, though a bit slower than before, and gracefully stood to fetch his violin.

John lounged before him as the familiar notes and soft cadences filled their small cottage.

No mere words could capture the man in front of him. Just as no mere melody could manage to encompass their time together. Yet each attempt wove together in to something more. Something beautiful. Something uniquely them.

As the favourite piece finished, John requested softly, “Now play the first... and all the rest...”

END


End file.
